Sunstroke
by Darah Deschain
Summary: For all the sun is strong, the moon is beautiful
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_The Making of Minds_

The flashing orange light of mage-fire melted the cold shafts of moonlight fanning through the omnipresent clouds, the ancient stone walls of Lowtown throwing up frightening and vivid marionettes frozen for the briefest of moments in the throes of battle. There was a roar like thunder and the square exploded with flame like a shattered star, the air filling with the acrid smell of burning hair and flesh. The hawk could still smell the result of her power from her perched vantage point crouched on the roof of a one story slum; arms thrust out in front of her sending out great arrows of flame, the long arcane staff in her hand crackling and buzzing with electricity. The light was reflected in sparks of bright steel as the wolf danced with his massive two handed weapon, a claymore of hand-biting beauty. The doe stood with her legs apart some distance from him, surrounded by a small ring of her own white flames, her face flushed and icy blue veins illuminated on her porcelain skin. The spirit was cloaked in shadow, his hand carving waves through it, sending it billowing through the Lowtown thugs to steal their strength and foolish bravery. There was one final sunburst of heat and light followed by a terrible stifling darkness and then it was still. The moon stuttered and quivered as though afraid to shine light on the grisly scene.

Corpses littered the ground – charred, damp and stinking. All in all, there were thirty-three men and a single woman sprawled in an undignified state. But their faces were dark, their clothes dyed deep red and their motionless bodies seemed to blend into the dirt and sand and other debris. They weren't invisible, just unimportant.

Merrill had collapsed, and was trying to prop herself up on her shaking hands and knees, panting and coughing fitfully. Anders did not rush to her aid, but only stood there giving her a strange look between pity and disdain. Fenris stood between them, stiffly sheathing his great sword on his back, looking carefully anywhere but at the two mages; the silver veining tattoos on his arms and throat standing out as if greeting their kin, the moon. It was Hawke who slid swiftly down from her perch to assist Merrill, bringing her to her feet and checking her eyes. They were dulled and slightly unfocused, but her pupils were still large, cat-like and shimmering. Mere exhaustion could be recovered from.

Hawks glanced over her other companions. Fenris stood sheathed in moonlight, his body still full of nervous energy despite the draining battle, his hands twitching at his side as though irritated at being without the hilt of a sword. It seemed almost as if it were taking him some strength of will to not shift his weight from foot to foot. He was like quicksilver. Like the moon, he was pale and penetrating and at one with cold darkness – but unlike the moon he was shifting, changing, fluid, not consistent or still. Even the scarlet trickle dripping from his chin seemed cold and metallic. It was a cut lip, barely a scratch, but just enough to bleed. Hawke had forgotten the wolf could bleed.

Anders stood further off. He was so different to Fenris there seemed a polar opposition between the two. The spirit was warm where the wolf was cold. Anders stood still and sure like daylight, his presence alone chasing away the shadows. He was warm and made of flesh and muscle, not steel and silver; tall like a pillar, kind faced and handsome. He casually flicked back his dark hood to reveal hair like sun on sand and reluctantly stepped forward, taking Merril's arms off Hawke.

"You can't keep letting her do that." His voice was stern, but he could not hide an undertone of concern for his fellow mage. Hawke shook her head, refusing to comment. She knew Anders would never stand for Merril's type of magic, but now was not the time or the place to debate the morality of blood and demons. She could sense Fenris behind her, could sense his distrust, could feel his disapproval in the prickle on the back of her neck. It usually didn't bother her when others thought ill of her, but his tenuous reluctance hurt and scratched at her mind. She could not ignore it.

Anders was looking at her expectantly, awaiting her order. His eyes were full of trust and loyalty, his mouth ready to smile. In front of her the sun warmed her face and offered safety, healing and compassion. Behind her the moon chilled her neck and shoulders, pulling her by his cold beauty and dark mystery. She smiled, her heart feeling light and fluttery, but her mind at ease.

She had made up her mind.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_That Side of Me_

Hawke didn't allow herself to pause when making her way through Darktown towards Anders' clinic, knowing that if she did, it would be so much harder to have the conversation she felt was long overdue. Their friendship had been easy and almost immediate. They were of the same breed and spoke the same language. As one of the medical profession he was endlessly helpful as a fighting companion and his light hearted sarcastic humour was always welcome at the bar table. As a result there was never any reason for them to be apart for any length of time. Hawke had gotten to know him as a man of three parts.

She was greeted by the first part as she strode across the straw floor of the clinic. Anders was talking to a small mousy woman with a smiling sunny voice, instructing her on the taking of a potion. She was nodding gratefully, easily handing over a small sum for the cure – which he politely refused – and they parted in a flurry of farewells. It was only Anders who could make a patient feel so care free about being ill. This was Anders the Healer, a handsome charming man with a young smiling face and eyes that were warm and caring.

"Arrianna." He grinned, clasping her small hand in his two large ones in what looked like a handshake but felt more like an embrace. He looked her over, scanning her intact robes. "I hope you're visiting me for pleasure and not in need. I know you are not exactly the diplomat." His lips curled in an easy laugh and she felt his charm and influence like a balm.

"You know I would never visit you for pleasure. Your company is grating."

He grimaced and clutched his heart in a feigned show of injury. "You wound me, Arri. I shall cry myself to sleep tonight."

She snickered, taking her hand back and looking around. "I don't see any patients. Was she your last one?"

He nodded. "I will not be seeing anyone else today. I've been having a few sleepless nights and don't want it to interfere with my work. I've been thinking of taking a break." He said this so casually, she couldn't help wondering if he had rehearsed the sentence. It was obvious he didn't want the matter pursued, so she let it go, leaning against the wall of the clinic. Her foot knocked over a clay bowl, which tipped and spilt a fair bit of milk over the straw.

"I've been putting out milk," he explained in response to her curious look. "I miss having a cat around." Ser Pounce-a-lot had been Anders' furry companion before his superiors had forbidden it. It did not do to look soft and cuddly in front of one's fellows. Hawke smiled at his silly indulgence, but inside her, a worried voice nagged and complained. _Warrior mages don't keep cats, Hawke. Furry animals are the pleasure of women and… _She stifled her panicky thoughts and brought herself under control. Now was not the time to doubt her intent.

"But I think the refugees have scared them all off," he continued, wrinkling his nose. "Or maybe eaten them…" His face grew serious and he took a step towards her, testing the ground. For a moment, she thought he was going to begin her conversation for her, but he only gave her a frank look and said "You know… I've been meaning to thank you… Having someone like you making a name for yourself in Kirkwall, it's done a lot for mages."

It was true. Her reputation as a trustworthy mage was spreading. It was nice to see her fellow mages being treated with a little more dignity and grudging respect by the Templars around the city. But she wouldn't say it was all her doing either. There was only so long a man could hate and fear something for no good reason. She was just helping things along.

"You're the kind of leader we need," he stated with pride, "to tell the world we won't be punished any longer for our Maker-given gifts."

This was Anders the Revolutionary. Hawke felt a flush stroke her cheeks. She loved it when he talked like this, like an old freedom fighter from a forgotten storybook. She couldn't help but feel empowered by his words, like it was possible to take on the Templars single-handedly and succeed. "Oh I love it when you go all hot-headed revolutionary," she giggled before she could stop herself. It was timed just right, the tone just innocent enough to convey exactly what she meant. He couldn't miss such an obvious hint.

He sighed heavily, his face hardening. "I've tried to hold back," he said, his voice still warm but with a stroke of warning. "You saw what I almost did to that girl," He was talking about a particularly bad fight over a mage with a Templar. It was one of the few times Hawke had ever seen the third and final part of Anders. She didn't want to think about it.

"You've seen what I am." He paused, looking at her, his face a little softer and his voice full of something stronger. His eyes locked on hers. "But I'm still a man. You can't tease me like this and expect me to resist forever."

She looked right back at him, serious now and her voice low and heavy with implication. "I don't want you to resist."

His mouth met hers in a hard embrace. His breath was hot and his usually warm, caring hands were clutching her sides painfully. He was like fire, and the burning throbbed and tingled in her stomach, her lips sore and weak against his insistent kiss. He pressed her against him, his breath escaping his lips in a stifled grunt. She suddenly felt feverish.

They parted almost as suddenly as they had merged. She was breathing hard and he stepped back, almost apologetic, his lips parted slightly as if he couldn't really believe he had just done that. The outburst of passion had left Hawke feeling numb and shaky, like sunstroke. Yes, he was a man, a man that craved to be against her, to be gripping her hips and consuming her lips. All thoughts of doubt and indecision left her, but Anders looked confused, scared even.

"This will be a disaster. But I can't live without it," his voice tinged with longing. "We could die tomorrow. I don't want it to be before I tell you how I feel."

"I've never felt this way about anyone…" Even before they were out her mouth, she realised how silly the words sounded. They seemed like the right thing to say, but now that she had said them, they rang false. She thought of moonlight and cold hard steel. But steel bit and hurt. The sun would keep her warm, would shelter her from the darkness. She needed him to believe her. She was not lying to him, really. She was scared of the dark and the cold and the white moonlight was so indifferent. The wolf would eat her as soon as love her. The moon was complex and half-hidden in shadow, but the sun was warm and never hidden. The sun was so strong that it shone through clouds and destroyed darkness. Her love was real, but she had to keep the dark side of her heart secret, or the sun's rays would burn her as sure as hellfire. Justice would be brought down upon her if she wronged him.

He didn't seem to notice the struggle behind her eyes. "I thought with Justice this part of me was over. I can't give you a normal life. If you're with me, we'll be hunted, hated. The whole world will be against us." He stopped, looking at her as if scared she'd run away. "If your door is open tonight, I will come to you. If not… I'll know you took my warning at last." He turned away from her, stooping to mop up the spilt milk with a rag – making it quite clear that their conversation was over.

She left the clinic happy, a warm weight on her heart. Despite his dark conclusion, she knew that Anders would come. More than that, she understood that his love for her was as warm and kind as sunlight, and as powerful and reckless as fire. It was not just guesswork anymore, no longer a possibility in the wind, but a fact; as sure as each night dawns a bright new day. Now she had a reason to win every fight apart from the money and the selfish act of living for herself. Now she would return to her bed not exhausted and alone, but content and surrounded by his caring arms. It was a nice feeling to know that she had his love, his heart under her control. He was a firm foundation, a rock on which to build any endeavour or future project. With him by her side, she could not fail.

XXX

Hawke was aware she was being followed while she browsed for robes in Hightown. Her shadow was keeping a respectable distance while in this public square, but she couldn't help but notice his disinterest in the wares, his glancing from side to side and occasionally in her direction. He seemed as if he were waiting for someone. Deciding to confront him, Hawke headed swiftly down an alleyway – or rather it was a simple divide between two mansions, no street in High Town was degenerate enough to be called an alley – and waited for him to make a more definite appearance.

"I got your letter." It was a statement, not an invitation for him to speak or explain. He was tall and thin and compact, his hood not quite fitting his head due to the long slender ears on either side of wide orb like eyes. "I would only do this sort of job for a mage or for a lot of coin. Which is it going to be?"

Without speaking, her shadow produced a small purse and laid it in her hand. Despite its size it was surprisingly heavy. Hawke emptied it out onto her hand, revealing the shimmer of five gold sovereigns. Trying to ignore the implications of an elf in a cloak that was both ragged and far too big for him owning so much money, she nodded, gesturing for him to start speaking.

"I have a friend…" he stopped, seeming to struggle with the common tongue. Hawke recognised the sing song accent of the Dalish. Smiling, she shook her head and answered in his own language. "Lots of people have friends, serah. You'll have to give me more information than that."

He looked relieved. "I have a friend who's disappeared and hasn't returned for some time. I hear you're good at finding people."

"Where did you last see him? Do you have any idea where he might be now?"

"She." He corrected her with a slight flush and a bow. "I last saw her over a week ago. She told me that she was seeing someone." He grew ever more uncomfortable. "That she had to go talk to him at the Crossroads."

"Which crossroads?"

"The Spirit Crossroads."

Hawke gave him a confused look. "The Spirit Crossroads…? I'm afraid I'm not too familiar with that name. Where is it?"

"A day's ride north of the Dalish settlement."

"Why don't you do there yourself?"

"My people are forbidden to go there," he explained as though talking to an infant. "It's the place where our ancient ancestors used to commune with spirits and demons alike. It is a place where the fabric of the veil is frayed." He shrugged off the sentence as if it were irrelevant.

"Do you think she's practising blood magic?" There was not a hint of disapproval in Hawke's voice, but something more akin to irritation. "Don't skip around the subject. If that is the case, I expect double the payment. Who knows what demons she might send after me?"

The elf spat at her feet savagely. "How dare you! Sympathy has never - " Beside himself, he could not finish

Instead of being offended, Hawke simply laughed. "I'm afraid you're in denial, kid. Come on, she's going to see someone? At this Crossroads of the Spirits…? Don't be so naive. Look, I won't expect the other five sovereigns unless there are demons, and if there are, then you can square the debt when I return. Sound fair?"

The elf growled, muttering to himself. "I am only accepting the terms because I know you can do it." He looked at her; his eyes bright and narrowed. "I know of your reputation. But this is just a go-and-find mission. There will be no blood magic."

Hawke nodded and took his name and arranged a suitable meeting place, as well as any further details he was able or willing to give to her. With the sun fast setting in the sky and a rather important nighttime appointment to keep, she could afford to make only one visit.

XXX

It was dusk when Hawke had finished some last minute shopping and made her way to Fenris mansion. She let herself in – the lock had long since rusted through, but there was nothing worth stealing and a hungry wolf inside. It was a fatal place to force entry. The air felt slightly damp and the floorboards creaked under her feet, moaning like ghosts. The mansion still held some form of ancient, dusty grandeur that was only enhanced by the advanced state of decay. In its prime it had been gaudy and hideous, with more gold and baubles than taste. Now with its wooden banisters dark with rot and the gold and silver dull with age and neglect it far more suited itself and it's present resident.

She climbed the stairs, which sighed like old men under a great burden and walked into the master bedroom - where Fenris spent most of his time reading, drinking and entertaining himself. This time however, she heard another voice in his chambers and realised that he must have a guest. A rare occasion.

"Oh come now, Fenris, don't be so shy about it all. It's not really illegal – at least I don't think it is in this province."

Fenris' deep liquid voice answered with a dark rebuttal.

"Fine, have it your way… But like it or not, you have the same needs as the next man. You know where to find me when you realise that."

A figure, curvaceous and full bodied like a dark wine stood and slipped past Hawke in the doorway, giving her a knowing wink. Hawke felt a sharp stab of cold hatred flare up in her mind. There had never been very much between Isabela and herself, but the pirate woman's frivolous and provocative attitude was becoming more than tiring. It was not a quality Hawke valued in her followers and here she was, harassing the wolf. She didn't deserve to walk away unscathed. Hawke cleared her throat and her head, taking a deep breath in order to calm down. Striding confidently into the room, she confronted Fenris.

"So what did she want?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut. Hawke had never seen him looking this weary. Sitting down, she poured a measure from the dark green bottle on the side table, the blood-wine thick and black in the greasy glasses. A single candle guttered and wavered with a weak white flame, leaving everything else in flickering blue shadow.

"To what do I owe this immeasurable pleasure?" he sighed, his voice heavy with sarcasm and dark wit.

"It's good to see you too," Hawke replied without missing a beat. She could banter with Anders, but Fenris did not share his irony. His tone was far more bitter and close to the truth. "I picked up another job that I want you to accompany me on."

"What sort of job?"

"We have to go to some questionable place north of the Dalish settlement to find and retrieve an elf. Nothing really unusual."

"Dalish?" His voice seemed a little more tolerant. He looked at her, his face both young and old at the same time. His dark skin was handsome, looking darker and more exotic when contrasted with his snowy hair. But his eyes were hooded and narrow for an elf, making them look lined and tired. The scars on his chin and throat stood out silver in the candlelight, quicksilver and moonlight. His was a face not to be lied to.

"There's a possibility we'll be dealing directly with blood magic. I know that you don't like to dip your feet in mage-craft when you can help it. Certainly I know you have no love for myself or some of our other friends, Merrill and Anders in particular. But you fight well with us, and your help would be appreciated."

He said nothing, considering. The candle sputtered and finally died, bathing everything in silver-blue mid-tones and dark shadows. "The air is bad here," he said without apology. "Damp, musty."

"How are you doing here Fenris? It's been more than three years. Why do you still wait?"

He shot her a dark look, barely visible in the half-light. "What else do you suggest I do?"

"I don't know," she answered sadly, truthfully. "You don't have to be alone you know. You could wait at my manor if you please. Or come with us more on missions and such. You'd make some money out of it. Perhaps you just need a sense of accomplishment."

Fenris re-lit the candle and sank back into his armchair, showing a brief, rare smile, his packed muscles relaxing under a thin shirt. Under the light of the new candle, Hawke could see the sorry state of his clothes.

"What makes you think I have no love for you or – as you put it – 'some of our friends'?"

She looked at him, unsure how to take the question.

"Your offer heartens me, but I must refuse. Danarius could return at any time – I presume he's simply biding his time. As for holding no love for you…" he sighed again, his chest deflating heavily. "Do not doubt that your company pleases me. It's far more stimulating than – " he gestured to the open door. "At least you bring me the prospect of work and interesting company. Mage or no, you make my life a little easier, a little brighter."

A giddy jolt made her heart beat out of time. How far could she take this conversation before he closed up? A brief thought of Anders flitted through her mind, wavering like the candle. Loyalty to him left her no room to pursue this particular line of conversation, but this tiny ray of moonlight was far more precious, far more delicate than Anders' frank open love. No, it wasn't more or less precious than Anders love. For all the sun was strong, the moon was beautiful.

"You find my company stimulating?" she stammered.

He shrugged. "I thought that was obvious."

A silence descended after that. Hawke was very aware of the time. The sun had set and night had moved completely over the world like a curtain. She couldn't think of any reply, her heart stuttering. Her eyes started to itch from the strain of seeing by the light of only a single candle. When she finally forced herself to speak, Fenris cut in before her.

"I will take the job with you. When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow. I'll come and fetch you at dawn."

"I look forward to it."

With that, he stood and stroke over to the murky windows, tugging the ragged curtains over them. It was time for her to go home.

XXX

Her mother and her dog greeted her warmly as she entered her new manor estate. Roffle leapt up on his hind legs and Hawke struggled to support the weight of the heavy, grinning animal. Once he had settled down by the fire once more, her mother kissed both her cheeks and told her, "Your brother wrote. He's going to come visit us when he is next on leave."

"Oh good," Hawke managed to fake just the right amount of joy to convince her mother. "He can look after the dog while I go out to work."

Her mother frowned, but changed the subject. "There is a gentleman waiting for you in the hall. He says you're expecting him." She gave her daughter a playful glare. "I do hope wedding bells will be ringing on account of this meeting."

Hawke snorted.

"Well, I'll leave you two to it. Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Grinning happily, Hawk strode into the hall, and pulled Anders into a tight embrace.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Blood Magic_

The hawk lay on her side and watched the sun rising through her tall second story window. The very top of the sun was just peeking above the horizon. It was probably wise to get up and send for Fenris, but the bed was so warm, so deliciously soft and comfortable. Five more minutes would never pass. Turning on her other side, she looked at her new lover. Anders was still sleeping peacefully. His skin was smooth and soft, his warm healthy complexion shadowed by neglected stubble. She touched him, marvelling at how strong his body was. He was a broad man, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest. Hawke had never seen a man naked before. She had expected something vulnerable and mild, but Anders' body had been strong, a complete entity – a perfect expanse of flesh and muscle. She had expected him to be afraid, to be gentle, meek and careful like a child, but he had been fierce and proud like a lion, his hair glowing with gold and amber in the firelight. It seemed like he had pent up all this passion, all his longing, restrained it and suppressed it until he could take it no longer.

They had talked of their feelings for a short time. They had kissed, tentatively at first, as though becoming familiar with the rising and falling of their chests, the rush of their breath and the taste of their lips. She had lain back, and with sure, practised hands he had undressed her and taken her. He had not fumbled or blundered but led her firmly in the dance. He had been right when he said he was a man. It was only when they parted and she curled up in his arms that he seemed apologetic. Happy, smiling and kissing her forehead he had told her how he couldn't help but love her, like it was the wrong thing to do. He had been grinning like a naughty child, liberated by the breaking of the rules. That was it, he was a freed man now, breathing the air that was finally his own. That other part of him, the dangerous sleeping dormant part of Anders seemed almost non-existent.

She kissed his shoulder, his skin tasting of salt and ginger, and whispered to him softly. "Awake, darling. We must fetch the rest of our party."

He shifted, opening bleary eyes and looking at her as if seeing her for the very first time. "It wasn't a dream…" he mumbled.

"Oh stop!" she giggled, sitting up and stretching. "We have been sleeping long enough and must get a move on. Can't leave them all waiting you know…"

"We can't leave them…" he repeated as though hardly daring to believe his ears. "Our party…"

She looked at him kindly, stroking his amber hair from his handsome face. "After what happened last night you are my equal. They are now our friends, not just mine." Her face grew serious. "Although it's probably not best to call me "darling" and "love" when we're out fighting. It doesn't seem professional, you know. But like I said, sleeping with the boss does have its perks."

Anders blushed furiously.

"What? You don't like me talking like that? Well, tough." She leaned forward, pressing her naked body against him. She could feel him tense. "Whether you like it or not, you slept with me… you had sex with me… you fu – "

"Stop…" he groaned, his hands finding her hips and squeezing nervously. "Stop talking like that or I'll have to do it again. There'll be no stopping me." He kissed her, breathing his laughter into her. She giggled and wriggled out of his arms and out of the bed, standing up and stretching to her full height, the dawn light stroking her slender, muscular body. "This isn't fair…" she heard him whine behind her.

"Come on, get up or I'll set the dog on you. We're already late."

"Alright, alright." He held up a hand in surrender, sweeping the quilt aside and sitting up, rubbing his face and feeling aimlessly for his clothes. She turned and caught another stealthy look of his body. The morning sun died his skin golden. She smiled to herself. She could do a lot worse for a husband.

XXX

An hour later, when they jogged into the Hanged Man, the sun was already high in the sky and the city was far into its normal morning routine. It wasn't just Fenris scowling at them from the bar, however.

"I contacted Merrill and Varric," he told her sternly.

"We're here," the wide-eyed girl chirped, waving her hand. "But if we'd known you were going to be late, we wouldn't have bothered getting up so early." She didn't seem too down about it, but then again, Merrill never seemed overly sad about anything.

"Did you get here alright?" Hawke asked with a hint of apology in her voice.

"Oh fine!" Merrill replied, sending out a winning smile. "Had to wade through the horse manure and garbage in Lowtown and dodge a few cut purses here and there, but all and all it was a wonderful trip. In fact I saw a pretty little bird which I had never seen before. It was so sweet and it sang like a… was it a robin? No I don't think it was a robin. Not that you would care about that sort of thing… unless you do like nature… do you?"

Hawke grimaced. "I assume you want me to say sorry," she conceded.

"It would be nice," said Merrill, still beaming, those big green eyes apparently oblivious to Hawke's discomfort. "But there's no real need. I only came here to hang out with Varric before you all left, I'm not going."

Anders grinned, stifling a snigger behind his hand as Hawke scowled. "Where is Varric anyway?" she asked, looking around for the jovial dwarf.

"In his room, packing some last minute things." Merrill took a delicate sip from a tall glass.

"So that's Varric, Fenris, Anders and me..." Hawke counted off her fingers. "That should be enough I think."

Just then Varric appeared, yawning and shouldering a pack that had to be slightly bigger than he was, as well as his beautiful Bianca, a mahogany silver-plated crossbow worth more than all their other gear put together. Like all dwarves he was stocky and thick limbed with a hard-set square jaw, but he had taken to shaving his beard, leaving sharp bristles. "Let's get a move on folks, before I have to listen to another word off these talkative drunks."

XXX

It was one of those rare too-hot days that everyone longs for in the winter but bemoans in the summer. The air was still with not the smallest gust of wind or relieving breeze. With every step, Hawke felt herself grow hotter, to the point of severe discomfort. They were climbing up the near side of Sundermount and the steep ascent was making her thighs ache. Anders was a little behind her. He had shed his feathered cloak, but all the same, she could hear him panting and leaning on the rocks for support. Varric stumped along behind him in a steady rhythm. His stamina made it appear as if he was not affected by the harsh heat, but his face was red and moist, his eyes unfocused. It seemed that only Fenris was remained untouched by the sun. He was still light on his feet, still looking ahead, his white hair and silver tattoos looking like cold metal in the brilliant light. Hawke got the sudden urge to turn around and either press her face against his cool metal exterior or throw something at him. The sun was highest in the sky and Varric's face was turning purple before Hawke decided that none of them – bar Fenris it seemed – could take another step. She gestured that they should all find a boulder to sit on and divide up the rations.

They had made good time, she noted, looking down on the ground they had left behind. They must have recovered the hour they had lost in leaving. She stretched out her leaden legs in the shade of a wilting sapling. It was hardly any shade at all, but anything was a relief after the terrible heat. Anders slid down beside her, smiling despite his sweating face. The sun appeared to bleach his hair white. He offered her his water skin.

"Don't be stupid. I appreciate the sentiment, but I know you need it, and I have my own." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "There's no point in romance out here. You've already got me, so who are you trying to impress?"

He looked taken aback and his face flushed deeper, but she could see he was relieved and took a long drink.

Varric was taking advantage of the dark shadow of a boulder, munching away. But Fenris sat with his long slender legs spread out directly in the sun, practically baking on the rock. Hawke pointed discretely, whispering to Anders, "Is that just an elf thing or has the sun addled his mind?"

Anders chuckled silently. "I think it's just an elf thing. He's showing no symptoms of sunstroke."

"Maker, he's making me feel ill looking at him."

They were silent for some minutes. Hawke suspected Anders had fallen asleep. His eyes were closed and he was breathing evenly, perfectly still and relaxed. She started when he spoke to her softly.

"I'm glad we didn't bring Merrill," he said with a sigh.

"Why?"

"She's nice and all..." he opened his eyes but didn't meet hers, instead looking up at the azure sky. "And she's loyal to you but... She's been coming to see me lately, asking odd questions."

"Oh?"

It didn't seem like he was going to elaborate and Hawke was preparing to drop the subject when he continued. "She wanted to know about the mage-craft I used when I invited Justice into my body. She was asking all the right questions. It made me nervous."

Hawke shrugged, frowning. "We all know she has an interest in blood magic."

"Yes, but to bring her where we are going, to a place once used specifically to summon demons... I'm just glad she didn't come."

Hawke turned to him, her face incredulous. "She only uses blood magic to better understand the lost ways of her people. She would never summon a demon or invite a possession."

"Perhaps..." Anders closed his eyes again. "But I don't share your certainty. And neither does Fenris."

"You were talking to Fenris?" Hawke tried to imagine the two in friendly conversation and couldn't. "I didn't know you two were on speaking terms. What did he – "

She heard Fenris cut through, interrupting her before she could complete the question. "We need to move on soon, or we'll lose the time we have won."

Hawke nodded and groaned to her feet, stretching her arms above her head. The sun had fallen a little, the heat lessening, and there was a very slight breeze. They set off again, keeping good time and steady rhythm. Hawke let her mind wonder as she allowed Varric to lead the way.

Merrill was a blood mage, she knew that, but she had never done anything to suspect that she might lose control or fall into madness. Yes, she was a little eccentric, perhaps a tad too cheerful given her circumstances; but she was sane, she was rational, and moreover, she was a friend. There had never been any doubt in her mind that Merrill was in control. Why was Anders suddenly coming out with these doubts? What was wrong with asking questions? What had he meant by the "right questions?" And what did Fenris and Anders have to talk about? They were hardly bosom friends as it was. She shook her head; trying to clear it of buzzing irritating thoughts. Whatever this was about, she would have to talk about it with Anders later. She couldn't afford divisions in her group.

They walked until they reached the Dalish settlement where they were greeted briefly by the elves guarding the opening to the clearing who took their names and escorted them inside, wary of Fenris who just took in all around him, his stature tall and stoic.

After a short word with the keeper, the companions were allowed to camp a small distance away from the settlement if not actually inside it. Hawke had always been careful to make sure she and the keeper were on good terms. She was the oldest looking elf Hawke had ever met, but was still beautiful in a regal, graceful way, with eyes that radiated with wisdom and strong pure knowing. Hawke was perhaps a little envious of Merrill – what wouldn't any mage give to study even for a short time under the keeper? – But at the same time she wanted to keep her distance. Elves always made Hawke uneasy. She didn't dislike them; she just didn't really understand them, or how to treat them. They appeared far less radical than humans, but the Dalish were haughty, disdainful creatures. As far as she was concerned, there was no need to get in any elf's way.

She sent Varric to trade with some of the elven merchants for food while she and the others set off for a nearby cave deemed safe by the keeper to sleep in. As she knelt down to lay out her bedroll and Fenris set about kindling a fire at the entrance to the cave, Hawke took her chance to speak with Anders.

"So how long have you been hanging around with Fenris when I'm not looking?" she whispered, careful to keep her voice below the pitch of the wind outside.

"I haven't been 'hanging around with Fenris'," Anders murmured, smirking. "He got sick and came to see me. It's hardly strange or unusual."

Hawke found it difficult to imagine Fenris with any sort of sickness. "What was wrong with him?"

Anders looked uncomfortable, waving his hand dismissively. "Nothing serious or life-threatening. But I'm sure you'll understand that I can't go around telling you all the secrets of my patients. I'd lose my business." He smiled at her look of disappointment. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to start a bad habit of gossiping for your benefit."

"Will you at least tell me how you got onto the subject of blood magic or would you have to kill me to ensure my silence?" she pouted.

Anders sat down on his bedroll and stretched. "He said he wanted to be treated the old-fashioned way," he shrugged, then lowered his voice, giving a poor imitation of Fenris' growling tone. "'I just want to make it clear that although I respect your skills as a healer, I don't trust any magical remedies'" – basically he was saying in the politest was possible that he didn't trust me to touch him, let alone treat him. But it doesn't matter." He smiled, trying to show her he wasn't angry about it. "Only magical ills need magical cures. I tried to explain about all the different types of magic, including the healing types."

"Did he seem interested?"

Anders shrugged again. "The more you know about magic, the more you can protect yourself against it. So he listened and asked questions and one thing led to another and we were talking about Merrill and blood magic. It was the only thing he didn't want to know a single thing about. He made it quite clear he didn't want to mix in with any of that."

"But he has nothing against Merrill. He fights beside her all the time."

"That's the thing. He understands the importance of your leadership and the group dynamic. He doesn't want to know enough about Merrill that he couldn't trust her when he needs to. Fighting is almost like..." he struggled for a word. "Well, it's a team sport. You need to know that the man – or woman in this case - beside you is reliable." He gestured towards the fire, which was crackling brightly against Fenris' ebony armour. He was sitting some distance from the entrance with his back to the cave. "As far as he's concerned, it's better not to know."

Hawke continued to look at Fenris beyond the camp fire. The air had gotten colder and a gusty breeze tugged at his silver hair. The sun was setting and the bloody sky seemed more alive than him, still and poised like a statue.

"I still want to know what made him ill..." she admitted.

XXX

Hawke left the men alone to talk and eat in the cave with the excuse that she needed to take care of "lady issues". Not surprisingly, none of them offered to escort her. She was grateful, and took advantage of the ten or so minutes she had to herself to think about her situation

It wasn't the mission that bothered her. As far as she was concerned, this was routine. What worried her was the apparent unwillingness of two of her companions to trust Merrill. What was so different about the young, sweet, orb-eyed elf? Fenris didn't like mages anyway, but he had made it obvious that he trusted Hawke herself, even liked her. Anders was a mage himself and it seemed strange for him to show any sign of apprehension towards one of his fellows. How many times had she heard him blunder on about how all mages need to stick together, all equal and strong? Yes Merrill was quiet and yes, she didn't talk very much about her craft, but like minds attract. Hawke had always thought that the reason Merrill followed her was because she shared the same opinions about blood magic. Experimentation was fine, but they all knew when to draw the line.

Perhaps Anders was just still sore about his own experiences. Tampering with spirits had left him with an almost marital bond with one, omnipresent and ready to leap forward against Anders' will to wreak whatever revenge it thought required. It wasn't a rational creature, it didn't think, it just acted on its strong and uncontrollable emotions. That must be it. Anders was wary of Merrill because he saw in her the potential to make the same mistakes that he did and bring the rest of the party into danger. She frowned to herself, unhappy with this theory. If it were true, that meant Anders was being silly and hypocritical. Yes, Justice could get out of hand, but that didn't stop him coming along with her on missions and errands. He insisted on sticking by her despite it all... or...

She remembered all the times he had ever been close to her before the night he came to her manor. He had always been friendly, happy, gentle and entertaining, but she still sensed in him this suppression, this guilt. She had known all along that he thought being with her was wrong, getting closer and closer to her had only increased his guilt relatively. But Merrill... Merrill was like a child. There was no guilt, no suppression. In fact, she had stated before that she didn't believe in suppressing the knowledge and power of her people, that she had been forced to leave the Dalish on account of this belief. Maybe Anders feared her because she did not share his guilt.

Maker, it was all falling apart. The last thing she needed was divisions in her own party. She needed them together and strong and she needed all of them. Maker knew she couldn't have done any of the things she had to achieve her wealth and reputation on her own. She knew the time was coming where she would have to pick sides, but she dreaded it. It meant saying goodbye to some of them permanently. She thought of who she could lose. With the exception of perhaps Isabela, the very idea of losing even one of them made her heart ache. Sighing, she figured she had spent enough time on her own and returned to the cave before the men grew worried and came out to look for her.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Home Sweet Home. _

The broken glass hurt and finally cut into her palm, forcing her to jump down and press the bleeding gash to her mouth, cursing all too viciously for someone her age. She blinked angry tears from her eyes and cleverly ripped off the hem of her trousers, wrapping her hand. Gritting her teeth, she looked back up at the window, judging for the second time the distance and risk. After a brave count to three, she leapt up and caught hold of the sill, careful to avoid the jagged edges of glass this time. Using all the strength of her upper body, she hauled herself up and found herself bent double in the window, legs dangling uselessly. She couldn't keep the glass from snagging her clothes, but moved slowly knowing that a gash to her stomach could mean her life, not just curses and a few tears. After several minutes and extreme care, she slid into the house with very little injury save a few scrapes on her ribs. Sighing with relief, she took some time to look around.

There didn't appear to be any traps or alarms, but she knew he was careful. He would never leave a house like this without some sort of warning system in place. Treading very carefully, she crossed the entrance hall and opened a door at the far end. It led into a kitchen of sorts, with a long dead range cooker and massive open fireplace complete with a heavy, evil-looking cauldron and great mountains of ash. There was food on the table in the corner but it had gone green and furry. She didn't want to breathe near it, let alone touch it. All in all she was quite disgusted with the state of the place. Surely she must have walked into the wrong mansion. He would never live in a place like this, not her haughty little wolf.

She strode over to another door that led off to a room behind the fireplace. It was a cool, airy room that smelled of ancient rosemary and mixed spices. _This must be the pantry_, she thought, inspecting the rows and columns of fresh, stale, and practically rotten food. The fresh food was at the front of the shelves, but the more she dug into the rows, the more her fingers made contact with objects that were wet and rancid. She jerked her hands back and scowled. The stupid blighter hadn't emptied the pantry in years, just added to it, piling fresh food on top of rotten mush, letting the spores and the fungus spread. Carefully choosing a single fresh green apple, hard stale bread, and some meat that didn't look too grey, she made her way back to the kitchen and made herself at home.

Blinking up at the grand oak ceiling she pondered on the waste of such a beautiful place. She had wondered several times why Danarius hadn't returned to claim this stately home back. She knew she would. Dry rot had set into the corner of the ceiling and she wrinkled her nose. Damn that little wolf, he needed a wife, or at the very least a housekeeper. She brightened up at the thought of that. She could be the housekeeper. She spent a few happy moments, munching on her sandwich, making satisfied noises and dreaming about living with little wolf again, and working to make this place her dream home.

XXX

The morning dawned mild like a newborn lamb, the sun skimming the blue hills in the distance with a loving caress. No one else was awake and Hawke stretched luxuriously, flexing the stiffness from her muscles. She looked around her at her slumbering companions. Varric lay sprawled on his back, grunting and sniffing like a pig. Fenris was curled into a ball, stiff and brittle looking. For a moment she felt pity for him. All those years as a slave, and then on the run, had taught him only to allow the lightest of sleeps, never letting his body relax. She looked away and towards Anders who was also on his back with one hand behind his blonde head and the other resting on his stomach, rising and falling with his gentle breathing. Stealthily, keeping one eye on Anders, Hawke crept closer to Fenris, one tiny baby step at a time, ready to freeze should he show any signs of consciousness. She was close enough to touch him, but she didn't dare. She just sat close to him, watching his light, whispering breathing. The sun stroked the lyrium laced tattoos veining across his arms like sapling branches. The white skin around the tattoos was lined with flaring red, angry like a rash. Hawke moved an inch closer, holding her breath. Surely the scarring didn't hurt still, after all this time...?

Without realising it, her hand was hovering over the silver lines, a hairs breadth from his skin. She froze. Varric snorted loudly, and shifted, grumbling and murmuring. Hawke breathed a long, low sigh, letting out the breath that she had been holding. Looking back at Fenris, her blood turned to ice. His eyes were open and dark and suspicious. He was as still as she was, but his lips were twisted in an irritable frown, watching her steadily.

"A scorpion," she insisted weakly. "There was a scorpion on your arm." She brushed his shoulder as though patting it away, her heart pounding wildly.

There was perhaps a glimmer of laughter in his eyes, but that might have just been hopeful delusion. "There are no scorpions on this side of the mountain. I think you must have seen a spider..." He sat up, cracking his neck lazily like a slender big cat. Looking around, he surveyed the sunrise and the sleeping men in the cave. She remained still, wondering tentatively whether or not she had gotten away with it. Fenris' eyes seemed far away, glazed. Waiting patiently, Hawke blushed deeply, looking at anything except his face.

Then, suddenly, Fenris did something that was not only unexpected, but sent shivers all the way up her spine. He reached forward, slowly, as though approaching a frightened animal and wrapped his armed around her side, pulling her towards him. For a split-second, she thought he was going to kiss her, but he just gently turned her around and lay back down, his arms folding over her like two spoons nestling in a drawer. She didn't even breathe. He was wearing soft leather and it was sheer cold, raising goosebumps over her arms and thighs. His hand was just as cold, but it wasn't unpleasant. In contrast to her flushed flesh, it was delicious and caused sweet shivers.

She kept expecting him to speak, but he was silent and still. She could hear her heart in her ears and feel his steady beat against her back. She was acutely aware of Anders sleeping peacefully not three feet away. Staying there, pressed against him was more than she had ever dreamed, more than she had even let herself desire. It was almost too much. She forced herself to speak. "I... I can't..." she breathed, hating herself for breaking this electric moment.

She felt him sigh, and his arm moved away, releasing her. She sat up slowly, unwilling to leave his icy and thrilling touch. Turning to look at him, to apologise, she found him smiling and it disarmed her suddenly.

"I know it is more than I could hope for, that you would love me," he said before she could speak. "But I will be eternally grateful for those few moments."

"I should get the others up... we should set off soon..." She found she didn't have the nerve to speak and the words halted in her throat, sounding strained and stifled.

She stood, having to stoop below the roof of the cave and he turned round, reaching for his dark armour and packing away his bed roll. Waking Varric first, she began packing her things, finding excuses to postpone waking Anders. When she finally worked up enough nerve, she touched his shoulder gently, shaking him. He opened his eyes and gave her a welcoming smile that wrenched her heart from its seat, replacing it with a hollow empty ache in her chest. She felt her cheeks flush and blinked away welling tears.

"Come on," she ordered. "Let's get walking as soon as possible. I want to reach the Crossroads by nightfall."

Without looking back to see if they were following her, she strode off briskly, ice and fire licking her heels.

XXX

Hawke would not – could not – allow herself to think about what had just happened between herself and Fenris. It scared her too much to contemplate. The electricity, the shuddering coldness that made her body tremble, that made her feel so alive. She had felt her skin tickle and buzz with the sensation of his closeness, had felt her heart thud and stutter at the caress of his breath on the back of her neck. Her body had responded more powerfully to Fenris' touch than it had at Anders' first kiss. No… No, not more or less. Just different. Anders' kiss felt like fire licking her throat, like molten heat washing over her body, leaving her feverish and flushed. She felt tears touch the corners of her eyes again, and she kept her head down, grateful that she was at the front of the line, leading the group down the other side of Sundermount.

_Just as the sun is strong, the moon is beautiful._

Dammit, Maker it was too much. The guilt inside was tearing her apart. She had to tell Anders. That was the only way she would be able breathe again. His anger or his forgiveness would be the conclusion, the end of her sin. If she didn't tell him, it would only linger over her heart, never leaving her and never ending. If she did not confess it, it would happen again and again. She could hurt him over and over and he would never know, never suspect. She needed that barrier, needed him watching her, vigilant against her betrayal.

The more she thought about it, the more she began to twist it into something false. She practised the words she would say to Anders, rehearsing them until they were perfect. Fenris had forced his attentions on her – hadn't done anything wrong of course, nothing that would merit punishment – just stepped over the line of propriety, committed actions inappropriate for his position. She was blameless of course.

"Anders," she called behind her, waving him up to walk beside her. "I need to tell you something."

He jogged up to greet her, his face happily curious. "What is it?"

"It's about Fenris," she murmured, keeping her head down. She could hardly look him in the eye when she said thing. "He… I… that is…"

"What's wrong, love?"

The word caught her so far off guard that she almost fell over her own feet, stumbling clumsily. In less than half a moment she had decided what she was going to say. "I know you can't tell me what's making Fenris ill, but I don't want him growing too weak to fight. Just keep him healthy. I know you two don't get along so well, but don't treat him any differently than you would me, ok?"

Anders laughed. "Alright then, I'll give him a kiss next time he comes to see me." He paused when she didn't chuckle, sensing something was wrong. "Arri, you know I treat everyone the same in the clinic. Maker, I'd even treat templars if they really needed it… although that is a push," he grimaced.

Hawke nodded. "Yes. I know… I just wanted to make sure."

They both fell silent, Anders walking steadily beside her. She was very careful to keep a neutral expression, but inside she was writhing with humiliation. At the last second she had backed out, made up some silly story and left it at that. She couldn't tell him. The very thought of opening her mouth in front of him made her want to throw up. Biting down the almost dizzying nausea, she kept her mouth firmly shut.

"Ok," he corrected, musing aloud. "I probably wouldn't help templars. One less templar fit for duty, one happier mage I guess. Except your brother of course," he amended. "But he'd never come to see me anyway…"

She just let him babble on, thankful for the excuse not to speak.

The walked, stopping only for a midday break before starting again. Hawke tried to put the morning out of her mind. So she had made a mistake, but both she and Fenris understood it couldn't go anywhere and there were more important things to consider. They had the mission to get through. Perhaps after that she could think on it some more and even confront him, but for now, it would only slow her down and distract her.

They made it to the Crossroads just as the sun was setting. It was a circle of stone monoliths, some barely three feet high, others twice the size of a tall man. Some of the stones had fallen due to age or weather and were leaning on each other like old men, or lay flat on the ground like a knocked over tombstone. The hot weather had slowly degenerated to murk and humidity, the sky overhead an ominous grey-black. The air felt heavy and still.

They searched carefully until the sun had gone below the horizon and their torches started to fail before concluding that the elf girl was long gone by now. Unwilling to sleep in the shadows of the great stones, they set up camp in the open air and discussed the next course of action in front of a cheerful campfire.

"Well, it looks like the trail is dead – unless any of you saw something I missed?" Varric asked, plonking himself down ungracefully. Everyone shook his or her head. If Varric couldn't find it, it didn't exist.

"Was anyone even here?" Fenris mused. "There were no tracks or evidence anywhere. If I didn't know any better then I'd say this place hasn't been disturbed in decades. Whoever was here must have covered their tracks meticulously."

Hawke shifted uneasily. It wasn't the first time that they had been lured away from the city on a goose chase so they would be conveniently out of the way. "I don't know… the elf who asked us to do this seemed honest enough, distressed enough."

"You said he had a lot of money," stated Varric, frowning. "How many rich elves do we know?"

"I thought he had stolen it," Hawke shrugged. "I didn't think it was my place to ask. Look, I don't think we should give up on the idea that this could be a straightforward honest job. I mean, it does happen every once and a while. We'll do another search in the morning and if there really is no sign of life, we can go find the boy and question him then."

Each murmuring their assent, they propped up their individual sleeping bags and tried to get some sleep. Before she drifted off, Hawke tried to calm the anxiety rising in her stomach. If this was a decoy - sure enough there had been many before this one – then what were they trying to stop her from witnessing? Indeed, who were "they"? Who had paid the elf boy to lead her two whole days from Kirkwall? Was her family safe? She didn't really care about her brother. Maker, it was all he deserved to get himself mixed up in something unpleasant. But her mother… Was her mother safe?

A bracing wind shifted the clouds aside and Hawke rolled over onto her back, looking at the newly revealed stars. She lifted her hand and lazily traced the constellations with her index finger. There was Darthos the Hunter, and the Thirteen Brothers. The fire slowly receded into the blackened firewood and snorts and snores from the other side of it told her that Varric was long asleep. Soft breathing to her right meant that Anders had left consciousness behind as well. It was some time before she realised the unnatural silence to her left.

Turning her head to that side, she saw Fenris stiff as a board and holding his breath, his eyes wide open and harshly bright, his teeth gritted as though against some rising cry. His usually pale skin had turned a hot unhealthy blotchy red that contrasted horribly with his icy white hair. The skin around his tattoos looked especially angry and flared against the mercury vein-like patterns. He saw her looking at him and he shook his head slowly, seemingly unable to speak. Hawke was frozen, staring at him with her mouth slightly open in a stupid, useless expression. With a shaking hand, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Then, with sudden haste, he wrenched himself off the ground and stumbled away, outside the fires dying light.

For a second, Hawke just laid there, her mind sluggishly registering what she had witnessed. Then she too rose quickly and silently as she could and followed, fumbling around in the dark. She found Fenris hunched over a strangled looking bush, his shoulders heaving as he retched fitfully. There was a moment of horrible silence. Hawke watched, unsure if this wasn't some strange dream. The seconds ticked on as Fenris stood weakly, still hunched over and coughing wetly. Then he stood up straight and faced her. His face wasn't red any more, but a pale, pasty white that mirrored the moonlight, his tattoos standing out vividly.

Something inside Hawke seemed to stagger and break. This was so wrong. To see the proud warrior weakened and shivering made her heart contract painfully. It was like seeing a parent in tears. This was so terribly wrong.

"Go back to bed, Hawke."

That startled her out of her stupefied state. "What was that?" she hissed.

"It was nothing that concerns you," he growled, his voice deepening with his threat. "Go back to bed."

"Maker's bollocks, what is wrong with you?"

"I tell you, you saw nothing."

"But-"

"I said it didn't concern you!" he half shouted, the loud sound making her jump. Realising what he had done, he took a deep shuddering breath and spoke again, this time with a forced calm that made Hawke even more frightened than his shouting. "Please… for the sake of… just let it go. I'm fine. At least I'll be fine once I have had a good night's sleep."

With that, he strode past her, leaving her standing there, shivering, frightened and highly confused.

XXX

Hawke said nothing about what she had seen the night before, but got up the party up early so they could make another sweep of the Crossroads. They found nothing of course, but the work was good, making her concentrate and forcing her away from confusing and hurtful thoughts. After two long hours of solid searching, they all decided that it was time to call it a day. It would take them another day to make it back down to the Dalish camp, and Hawke set a fast pace. She wanted to get there in time to ask the Keeper and some of the other elves some very searching questions.

But when she was walking, she couldn't stop her mind from wandering, from calculating the situation. That was twice she and Fenris had exchanged private company while the others were asleep. She had known he was sick, but not this bad. What in the Maker's name was bad enough to induce shakes, fever, and vomiting, and then suddenly disappear as if it had never happened? Surprisingly enough, even though the second encounter had been shocking and violent, the first one still confused her the most. He loved her? It didn't make any sense. If he loved her, then why hadn't he trusted her and told her what was wrong with him? Was it because he loved her that he couldn't tell her, that he was too embarrassed? That didn't make sense.

Through some strong force of will, she resisted the urge to turn around and look at him, and brought her mind back to the problem at hand. She needed to question the Dalish and then get back home as soon as possible. Maker knew what things could happen in the four days that they had been unavailable in Kirkwall. One small hope kept her from breaking into a run. Merrill was still in Kirkwall, and so were Aveline and Isabela. Of course, the latter would hardly be any good, and the former was tampering with demons for all she knew, but Aveline would watch over everything. Surely she would do something if mother went missing? Nothing really awful could happen when pinned under the iron fist of the law.

Regardless the problem, Hawke knew that she could do more in Kirkwall and she needed to be there post-haste.

"Varric," she turned around to face him. "How well do you know these parts?"

"Well enough Arri," he replied in his husky voice, seeing the look on her face. "Why?"

"We need a shortcut."


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Missing_

Hawke wouldn't say she was claustrophobic, but being trapped in that tight stone passage with her right arm thrust out awkwardly in front of her and her thigh lodged in a jagged crevice had been enough to nearly unseat her nerves and drive her into desperate panic. The only thing that kept her sane was Varric's voice echoing somewhere behind her, urging her to remain calm, to take it one inch at a time. She felt foolish when she finally lurched out of the cave and into the open, but that didn't stop her sucking in air and sitting down on the ground to compose herself. Fenris came next, somehow managing to clamber out with some grace. Anders had more difficulty than she did, however, his broad shoulders halting his process. He was forced to wriggle out of his long, thick feather cloak and only just managed to squeeze through with more than a few grazes and nasty bumps. When all three of them were standing on the other side though, they peered through the hole in the side of the rock curiously, wondering how in the Maker's name the stout, thick set Varric was going to make it through with his bulky armour and crossbow.

"Out of the way, clear the entrance," warned the dwarf, his hand emerging and waving them all to the side. They stepped back obediently, if perhaps a little confused.

There was an explosion of rock and rubble, throwing up sand and dust to cloud their vision, leaving them coughing and backing up. It was perhaps Hawke's imagination that Fenris had more trouble catching his breath than she and Anders did. A moment later the dust settled and there stood Varric, outlined in the neat little opening he had made, big enough to simply stroll through casually. Anders looked particularly annoyed.

"You made me squeeze through that Maker-awful hole and rip my best cloak when you could have just blasted us out too?"

"It's character building," Varric replied with a chuckle. "And anyway." He picked up a fragment of crossbow bolt, looking at it sadly. It was one of his special ones tipped with explosive gel that ignited on sudden impact. "I don't like to waste too many of these. They are damned expensive and Bianca can only have the best, of course."

"Of course," Anders muttered darkly.

Their journey through the cramped tunnels had been slow going, careful, and had left Hawke with an aching back and shoulders. However they had cut the days journey by more than half, leaving them just twenty minutes walk to the Dalish settlement before the sun had even made it to the top of the sky. Reluctant as she was to crawl back into the airless, light-less place, if there were any further caves to take advantage of, they could be back in Kirkwall by night.

But first, she had to ask some searching questions.

Hawke strode into the settlement some ten paces ahead of her companions and straight up to the Keeper's tent, only stopping short before the startled guards.

"I want to talk to the Keeper," she announced confidently.

"Andaran atish'an, Hawke, calm yourself," a gentle voice came from behind her, making her spin around. It was the Keeper of course, returning to her tent for the midday meal. "There is no need to demand my presence. I would quite happily speak to you if you wish." She paused, waiting for Hawke to speak.

Feeling a little foolish, Hawke explained their situation as briefly as she could. How a Dalish elf had paid her handsome coin to search for and return his girlfriend from the Spirit Crossroads, which is where she was last seen headed. However, upon searching the Crossroads, not a single footprint or trace of the girl could be found.

"So I just came to ask, do you know the elf boy or his sweetheart? Is she really missing?"

"There has never been a Ser Sympathy," answered the Keeper with concern. "I don't know who you are talking about. The boy on the other hand, he is Angella's child." The Keeper gestured to an elf merchant sewing peacefully by her tent, surrounded by different coloured silks. "He did indeed live with us here for some time. But he grew bored with the mountains and moved to Kirkwall to seek some coin and a home."

"Thank you, Keeper." Hawke wasn't surprised but she was sorely disappointed. It had all been a decoy after all. She forced herself not to panic, but made her bows and turned back to her companions. "Ok, we need to get back to Kirkwall. Varric, is there any more shortcuts we can take advantage of?"

He nodded

"Very well. Let's get moving."

XXX

The morning was glorious. It was the first day of his leave and Carver was feeling light on his feet. In one hand he held a love letter and on his lips a sweet happy smile. He had shed his armour before leaving the keep and he felt fresh in a light linen tunic, trousers and tough leather boots. He had spare gold in his pocket and lazily browsed the wares on display, distracted by a particularly nice looking set of fighting knives. Taking control of himself, he left the clamouring merchant and made his way to the Hawke estate. He even half-hoped his sister would be home so he could at least rub her face in the fact that he had a real job.

Catching a runner by the scruff of her neck, he handed her his letter and a few silver coins and sent her on her way. He couldn't help grinning like an idiot at the thought of his ladylove opening the parchment envelope… her beautiful slender hands… her glimmering eyes. He almost skipped the rest of the way home, humming tunelessly.

He let himself into the estate and was greeted with a loving embrace from his mother. He held her in return, breathing in her familiar perfume and feeling right at home once more.

"Mother," he smiled, pulling back from her. "Where's my bratty sister? Off gallivanting with qunari at the docks?"

"Behave yourself Carver," Leandra laughed.

He looked around hungrily. "Tell me she left one of her staffs behind. We're going to need some decent firewood."

She pushed him playfully and led him into the hall.

"Hello boy," he reached out to pet Roffle, who snorted at his hand before turning away, uninterested. Carver shrugged and followed his mother into the kitchen where she was kneading bread.

"Mother, for the Maker's sake, why don't you let the cook do that?"

"I like to bake," she answered simply. "It's therapeutic."

He shrugged and noticed a bouquet of white lilies displayed in a hand painted vase, their petals soft and white as snow. "Who're they from?"

"I don't know," his mother smiled proudly. "Arrived by post. It would seem I have a secret admirer."

"How mysterious," he grinned.

"Speaking of secret admirers, have you heard from that sailor lady again?"

"Why, indeed I have." He could see her chocolate skin now, her sumptuous curves, the delicious touch of her hand. He could hardly tell his mother what she truly was, but he wasn't _really_ lying. Isabela was a sailor of sorts… He shook himself out of his daydream. "Says she wants a drink at the Hanged Man tomorrow night – I just sent my reply."

His mother paused, looking him over fondly. "I'm so glad. You haven't looked his happy since… since she…" her face fell and she went back to kneading the dough, this time with rough determination. "Regardless, everything seems to be working out just the way it should."

Carver suddenly felt awkward. He reached out to lay his hand on his mother's shoulder. "Beth wouldn't want us to dwell on it. It was years ago… She would be happy to see us now. You, with a suitor, me a Templar…" he didn't mention Arrianna. It had been her fault after all… it was shameful how she squandered Beth's sacrifice by cavorting with shady dwarves, revolutionaries and blood mages of all people. Why couldn't she make the right decision for once in her life, keep a low profile, avoid being seen with… Oh it was no use. There would be no stopping the stubborn witch.

XXX

Thanks to Varric and no rest stops, the party stumbled back through the gates of Kirkwall bruised, battered and exhausted at nightfall the same day. Hawke told them all to get back to their homes as soon as possible and make sure everything was all right and then report back to her estate. She practically fled back home, leaving the rest to hurry back to their respective dwellings.

Fenris stopped outside his front door. This could have been an excuse for Danarius to retake the manor. If he was inside… Maker, how he hoped he was inside. Slowly, savouring the moment and the sound of the rotting wood creaking on its hinges, he opened the door and stepped over the threshold. Everything was still; there seemed nothing out of the ordinary. There was not a sound but his own anxious breathing and the thudding of his heart in his ears. Methodically, he searched the rooms and the cellar, ending up outside the master bedroom. He had saved that room for last, imagining the smug lord to be sitting in his armchair with a murky glass of the good red wine from the cellar. Fenris held that picture in his mind with a kind of vindictive pleasure. He even considered getting a bottle of his own to serve his former master mockingly before cracking it over his head like a cudgel. No… that would be too good for him. He wanted him to suffer.

Taking a deep breath, he swung the door open in one sweeping motion and faced a pair of empty chairs and a yet untouched bottle of wine. His heart sank and he fell into a foul mood. It was the fever making his blood boil for no good reason. Muttering dark curses, he uncorked the bottle and drank straight from it. He choked and spat before looking more closely at the label. "Sweet wine…?" he asked to no one in particular. He didn't drink sweet wine, couldn't stand the stuff. So someone had been here long enough to find the wine in the cellar, bring it up to his room and drink it before leaving the bottle for him to find. Who…? The wine wasn't so good that Danarius would return only for a drink.

Puzzled and tired and still slightly on his guard, he disarmed and unbuckled his leathers and armour, turning to dump them on the large moth-eaten four poster and jumped when the bed squeaked and wriggled. Frowning and now more confused than ever, he tugged the duvet back to find a pretty young girl of about fifteen years curled up and trembling.

XXX

Hawke paced from room to room, panic flaring up and making her feel sick. She began slamming doors in her frustration and it was not long before Carver confronted her.

.

"What the bloody blazes do you think you're doing?" he hissed, holding her shoulders firmly. She struggled free and snarled at him.

"Where's mother?"

"Off to see her suitor, you silly woman."

"What damned suitor?" she blurted incredulously.

"The one who sent her the lilies," he replied, gesturing vaguely in the directions of the kitchen.

"Lilies…" Hawke was rendered speechless. A cold dark weight smothered her heart and she found it difficult to breathe. "White lilies…?"

"Yes…" Carver looked closely at her, taking in her torn clothes and pale face. "Is something wrong sister…?"

She slapped him hard and his head snapped to the left. "You moron! I can't believe you just let her walk out the door!" There were tears in her eyes and her hands were shaking.

Carver raised his fingers slowly to touch his reddening cheek. "Have you gone mad?" he growled. "There's nothing wrong with mother having a suitor."

Hawke threw her hands up, turning away from him before she really lost her temper, and tried to explain in a tone of forced calm. "There's a serial killer. He's been keeping a low profile for some years now – but before he kills, he sends his victims a bouquet of white lilies." She looked back at him. "We need to go looking for her. You get to city guard and I can go –"

"N-nonsense," he stammered. "Serial killers? You selfish shallow bitch!" His voice was stronger now, anger blazing in his eyes. "I know what this is all about. You don't want mother to remarry! Dammit Arri, father's been dead for years. Don't you think she deserve some happiness in her life?"

Hawke just stared at him open mouthed. She took a breath as if to speak, but found there were no words to express her disbelief and fury. Closing her mouth, she spun around and left the house, slamming the door behind her with such force that it ricocheted off the frame and hit the wall with a loud bang.

XXX

For one of the few times in his life, Fenris found himself at the disadvantage of being rendered speechless. He felt like he had walked headlong into a dream. Had he hit his head on a rock coming out of the tunnels, or was the fever worse than he thought? The girl looked up at him fearfully, like a child caught with her fingers in the jam jar.

"Wolf…" she whispered. "I missed you."

When she didn't look as though she was going to say anything else, Fenris threw the duvet back over her, re-gathered his weapons and gear and strode out the door, calling behind him. "Do not leave this room until I return. I'll deal with you then."

XXX

He didn't have time for this. He had to go report back to Hawke. That's right. If he focused on the task at hand he could just forget he had found her in his bed – at least until he had the time or the nerve to deal with it. Of all the spirits of the past to come back to him, the child was the first. He had thought he would never see her again but now… had she escaped sometime after the boat had set sail? When the boat landed? It didn't make sense. Danarius would just let her go…

He almost charged into Hawke on the way through Hightown. She had her hood drawn up and her head bowed, but what he could see of her face was red. He stopped her, hands on each of her shoulders. Not bothering to resist him, she just stood there, leaning on his hands. Gently, he used his fist to raise her chin and found that she was not crying, but seething with rage. He almost took a step back, the fire in her eyes was so frightening. Steadying his nerves, he let her go and asked simply; "What happened?"

"Mothers been kidnapped. We need to find her."

Finally, something he could make sense of. "Let's start in Lowtown and work our way up," he suggested, looking around. Where were the others?

Hawke nodded, gripping the handle of her staff with white knuckles.

"You go on ahead of me. I'll leave a message for the others and they can meet us there."

Again, she nodded, her jaw clenched painfully, before disappearing swiftly into the shadows.

XXX

"A few silvers boy and you tell me what you know."

The sandy haired urchin looked at the heavy coin in his hand and then back at Hawke, eyes wide with awe and appreciation. "Serah! Of course. I don't know anything about murderers and such-like but we all know not to go into that house there –" he pointed " – It's haunted they say. Well, it's not really, but all sorts of bad magic go on in there. Perhaps that's where your guy is."

Hawke didn't even bother to thank the boy, but sprinted to the door in a frantic dash.

XXX

At first the girl was too startled to move from the bed. It had been so strange to see her wolf looking so grim in black metal armour as if ready for some terrible fight. He had looked so different. Older, with frightening dark eyes that made her think of falling down a long shadowy tunnel and hitting the merciless stone bottom below. He looked meaner somehow in the way his lips so readily curled down into a scowl that it seemed to have imprinted itself into the lines of his mouth and jaw. The tattoos stood out on his throat and arms more vividly than she had remembered, burning patterns into the backs of her eyes. He had been a shocking image: stronger, keener than the slave she once played with. But what had really scared her was the look in his eyes. It was cold as it had always been but there was something more that she hadn't ever seen before. There was anger, bitterness and cold determination. Before his eyes had been dead. Years as a slave had taught him not to see, not even to feel. Now he did see, his eyes bright and alive and filled with some strange new fierceness. She was not entirely sure she liked it.

Slowly, she crept out of the bed. For some reason she didn't really understand, she made sure she made no noise as she tiptoed towards the fireplace and sat down, smoothing her ragged trousers and carefully tried to kindle a fire. She had seen Fenris do it so many times before – how hard could it be? She folded the paper and set out the logs of firewood, careful not to get ash all over herself. She fumbled around, looking for strikers. It took her mind of the clenching knot in her stomach waiting for him to return. Regardless, the cold was starting to make her limbs shiver and ache. She found them several minutes later, tossed carelessly beside the poker, and opened the box. Breaking the first one, she took another and snapped that too. She lit the third, but jumped at the sudden burst of light and dropped it. It fell on the ashy hearth and went out, smoking. The fourth lit and stuttered as she tried to set the paper alight, frowning with concentration.

Ten minutes later she was nursing a small fire, barely big enough to warm her hands over. She was proud of her work, however, and used the poker to gently encourage the flames to latch onto the other logs. But now she had nothing to do but think. The cold knot in her stomach had grown tighter and it came back with a vengeance. It was only now that she was sitting in his bedroom, waiting for him to return that she realised how silly she was being. Of course he would not welcome her back; of course he would not be happy to see her. Maker, she was surprised that he hadn't thrown her out of the house right then and there. She certainly wouldn't welcome back the daughter of a man who had bought her, owned her, degraded her.

XXX

Merrill sat alone in her little house in Lowtown, reading a large tome so heavy that she had almost strained her back trying to get it off the shelf. It lay open on the table, which groaned and complained under the weight. Her long slender finger stroked the pages, following the lines of the old faded text, a sweet smile playing about her face. She loved this book. It was old, it was rambling and almost every word of every sentence was a blatant lie. She didn't know who had written it and there was no name on the cover or on the inside page, and she didn't even know how old it was, but she loved it all the same. She had nicknamed the author "Puppet" as she had guessed it had been written for some high king in a foreign land who had forced the original author to compile a fake history to justify a tyrant's rule.

"Oh Puppet..." she giggled, taking a long elegant quill and scoring out an entire paragraph before rewriting the correct version in the margin. "Prince Darius was a silly drunkard not a hero... How did you ever get away with this...?"

To Merrill, the book represented a challenge. She felt it was almost her job to correct all his – or her – mistakes. It was so entertaining and rewarding to investigate a certain chapter and find out the real truth behind it all. It was such a happy surprise to go looking for a pauper and find a king.

She jumped violently at a hard knocking on the door, causing her to break the nib of her quill. Cursing pleasantly, she stood looked around at the dismal state of her rooms. Why did people insist on coming to call when everything was in such a royal mess? Never mind that fact that it was creeping into the early hours of the morning by this time. Opening the door, she felt her heart suddenly race and the bottom drop out of her stomach. It was her...

"Sandy..." she murmured, her voice coming out in a whisper.

"Merrill..." the other woman's sweet accent stroked the inside of Merrill's mind, making her shiver pleasurably.

"Sandy... I thought you -"

"Hush."

Sandy stepped over the threshold and placed a single cold finger over Merrill's lips, making her heart do an impromptu somersault. She didn't think she would be able to breathe. The next thing she knew, their lips were together and Sandy was moving, pushing against her, her warm nimble hands making their way up Merrill's spine to let loose her short dark hair. There was a cascade of sighs and the two ended up on the bed, lips locked. Merrill didn't even notice when –

XXX

... Hawke closed the book with a snap. She could take exaggeration – she could even take a few of the more fanciful lies as clever poetic licence. But this! This was perhaps a little too far.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_A Busy Mind_

The heavy tome slammed down on Varric's desk, Hawke glowering over him.

"Merrill did _not_ have a lesbian lover!" she stated angrily.

"Yes she did," he replied calmly without missing a beat.

"What was her name then?"

"Kristy."

` "You called her Sandy in this version," Hawke told him, opening the book and running her index finger along the respective lines. He leaned forward, read a few lines and then cursed half-heartedly.

"It's my book. I can write whatever I like. If you don't like it, you don't have to read it," he said to her pleasantly, pulling his own book towards him and flicking through the pages fondly.

Hawke sighed with exasperation, sitting down heavily opposite the dwarf and gazing out of the open window. It was sunny outside but not unpleasantly warm. It was now some months after they had all left Kirkwall and Hawke had settled in a slow, peaceful little village on the borders of the Free Marches called Tredle. Varric was living with her while he fine-tuned his great project of a book and she would occasionally steal unfinished drafts for the sole purpose of criticising it ruthlessly. Well... it wasn't the only reason really. It helped somehow, to see the events laid out in someone else's hand. Things were clearer and less emotionally involved, which made it easier for her to make sense of it all.

"And how did you know about me and Fenris...?" she asked indignantly, wrenching her eyes away from the sunshine. "In the cave, I mean."

"That's a stupid question Arri," he chuckled. "I was there."

"But you were asleep."

"That's what I wanted you to think."

She raised her eyebrows, careful not to reveal her dismay. She opened her mouth as if to reply and then thought better of it. Of course he had been awake. If one thing was true of Varric it was that he could never be trusted not to listen in and file careful notes on every event. "Why didn't you stop me?"

"And halt the progress of a saucy love-triangle? Perish the thought!"

Hawke's frown deepened and felt herself glaring out of the window again. She was tired and probably not in the best mood to talk to Varric. She had developed a fondness and a deep respect for the dwarf but...

She had woken up late the previous night, sad for no reason – tears streaking her face as she sobbed and whimpered into her pillow. A nightmare still lingered as a persistent tattoo on the front of her mind, burning and stinging like a fresh wound. It had been the face of her mother, sickly white - with red-shot eyes set in hollow sockets. The mage who had violated her mother's body - stolen the right to her face stood over Leandra, looking at her with some sort of twisted farce that seemed like love but could only be called obsession. Not bothering to dress herself, she had slid out of bed, crept to Varric's rooms and rooted around for the appropriate chapters. She had returned to her own room, lit a lonely candle and prepared to relive Leandra's death through Varric's eyes.

But she had begun reading too soon and found herself unable to skip forward in some vain attempt to postpone what had already happened. The memories of Anders and Fenris had been equally painful and somehow equally needed to soothe her. She had even found herself smiling, caught up in his narrative and her own memories. His exaggerations and clever witty lies made it seem like some street play – entertaining and of no consequence. But as she had neared the section about the lily flower killer and found a silly passage about Merrill... it seemed so...

"It was disrespectful." She said finally, looking back at Varric.

He appeared confused, even a little worried. "I would never disrespect the subject matter, Hawke. Here..." he removed the offending section and Hawke saw that it was only a stray slip of paper that had been used to keep the page. "Now that's better isn't it..." His baritone always had a way of soothing her. "All gone." He then took a pot of paste from his drawer with a paintbrush and a rag, and with careful fingers he turned to another page at the back of the book marked "appendices" and glued the section down there, looking it over with a happy sigh.

Despite herself, Hawke found that she was smiling. "Come now, Varric. You can't keep that in there. I mean, you know I'll let you get away with murder, but this is ridiculous. And that part about my brother and Isabela –"

"Oh, but that was true!" Varric told her gleefully. "I swear it on my quill and ink it's true! He told me all about it before the... the fight. I would have hunted down the pirate herself, but by that time she was halfway across the sea."

Hawke gave him a withering look.

"Would it make you feel better if I admitted that Merrill didn't have a lover? But believe me – your brother had the hots for that rogue or my name is Nicklepoof-bottom."

Feeling marginally better, and perhaps even a little giggly, Hawke decided to forgive him. She couldn't blame him for wanting an audience's shock and awe after all. She had some idea of how it felt when she knew that people were hanging on her every word. "Ok, here's the deal. If Merrill hasn't got a problem with you giving her a girlfriend, then you can keep it. Deal?"

"Deal," Varric muttered reproachfully, peeling the page out before the glue dried. He looked at her seriously for a moment, reading the lines on her face. "How are you holding up, Champion?"

She smiled dryly at him. Although it had been several months since... everything... there still stood a grim reminder like a dead weight on her heart. She felt the absence of them more keenly than she had ever felt their presence when they were alive. Her mind cast back to a ridiculously beautiful day, a day when the sun sang through the emerald grass on a charming little hillside outside Kirkwall. She remembered cursing the sun for shining on a day when there should have been ominous grey clouds and depressing drizzle. How dare the immortal sun touch the gravestones, caressing their names like a mournful lover?

XXX

It had been too bright, the daylight so brilliant it was offensive to the eyes, sharp as broken glass. The temperature was just as sheer and cutting. It made her head ache and bleached everything around her so that she felt she was in a white-washed dream. Hawke felt the tears stinging on a face that was ragged and heavy. Her brother's body had been laid in the ground as was the way of civilisation, but she had insisted – no she had bitterly fought and hissed and spat like an angry cat – that Anders be burned as was the traditions of the Grey Wardens. She would not allow his remains to be half-buried in an unmarked grave, as was the usual templar treatment for traitors. After a lot of shouting and more than a few blows, they give up his body to her to do what she would with it. Now she stood by the pier feeling that she was the last living soul in the world.

She did not feel the presence of Varric who stood, looking grim and unusually formal despite his rough leathers and grizzled appearance. He looked on with an eye that was married to his hands, which would pour his vision onto the page, cementing the last image of the mage in the immortal volumes of history. Fenris stood beside him, towering above the dwarf. His expression was blank and he was looking only at Hawke, his eyes betraying his sorrow for her pain, if not for the loss of the spirit. The last and only other person to attend was Merrill, looking small and leaning on Varric – her leg was bound roughly and hovered tentatively off the ground.

Hawke held the torch with a steady hand, her face like stone, dewy with shimmering rain. Her body was straight despite her lack of sleep and her many injuries. Inside, however, her heart screamed and lashed against the cage of her chest, pounding and writhing in agony. She felt nauseous, a sick ugly taste in her mouth that made her want to gag. As it was, she could barely breathe. Stepping forward, Hawke carefully held the flame away from her beloved, coming close to him and kissing his motionless sleeping eyelids. His skin was so cold. It was a lie, a blatant insult to the shining sun god he had been, a terrible reminder of how golden his skin had been, how his hair had been amber and not the dull yellow it was now.

She felt for a short moment an overpowering ache in her chest and she sensed she would collapse as surely as if she had been fatally wounded. As Hawke turned away, trying to swallow a tearing cry, the flame made contact with the tinder and it flared up immediately, drinking up the alcohol and flammable oils. The orange flickering light stroked and bathed his face, making it look for a second as though he was only sleeping – as if he would rise like the morning sun and end the night that had descended over her heart. It was not so. The fire engulfed him, swallowing him from sight. A hideous smell touched the air around her and a thick black shadow rose from the pier. She felt a hand on her shoulder and not caring whose it was, she turned away and smothered her sobs in Fenris' chest. He led her away gently, hushing her like a parent would a wailing child.

What had followed was a sort of madness. It wasn't a raging, shrieking demonic madness; but a cold, hollow blanketing madness that muted her as surely as if her tongue had been ripped from her throat. She slept for days at a time, rising with the moon and not the sun. She lost the urge to eat and the food that Varric forced her to turned to ash in her mouth and came back up easily. Merrill stayed by her side and talked and talked as if trying to make up for her silence. Hawke didn't even seem to hear her, but stared blankly past, consuming thoughts drowning out any other sound.

It didn't last forever, though. Some weeks after they had moved to Tredle, just when she was starting to lose a dangerous amount of weight, Hawke found that she wanted to eat again and began to respond to Merrill's prompting with one word replies. It was up hill from there and she appeared to make a swift recovery. But only she knew, deep in the dark recesses of her heart, that the pain would never leave her. Oh it would fade, become tolerable, and she might even be able to ignore it. However, her heart now bore a new wound that would fester in her for the rest of her life.

She made the discovery that a busy mind was a happy mind and soon found excuses to read, to clean and cook. She found reasons to spar with passing mercenaries and caravan guards and searched tirelessly for problems in Varric's novel-in-progress. She planned out each and every day, not allowing a single minute to be idle. She methodically swept and mopped the floors, polished and maintained her armour and staffs, listened to Merrill prattle on, scrubbed the tables, slowly and precisely made the daily meals and rearranged her few lingering possessions. She sought work with the almost obsessive understanding that if she stood still for even a second, she would not be able to dismiss the ache in her chest. She could not force her mind to halt, drifting into dangerous memories any more than she could freeze the wind and stop it from rushing over mountains and valleys. Sometimes, late at night when she had not worked hard enough to lose consciousness as soon as her head hit the pillow, she wept helplessly, suffocating her strangled cries with her pillow, biting down so hard with her teeth that her jaw hurt.

Those nights were getting fewer now. It was only on a blue moon that she felt like that. One could even say that she was starting to function as a normal human being again. This was how she was now – talking to Varric and arguing the finer points of a love triangle. This is how she was when Fenris crashed through the front door, hissing and staggering, after months of absence.

XXX

Fenris had left shortly after Anders' funeral, declining all offers to come with Hawke and the rest. He insisted that he needed to go in search of his own home and place in society. He would not stay in Kirkwall – he shared too many of the Qunari's opinions on the dirt and corruption of the city – but had joined a caravan of merchants who would travel back to his birth-land. Hawke, in her state of mute acceptance, didn't ask about the scrawny teenager who held onto his cloak. If asked about it, she wouldn't have remembered her. She just remembered Fenris' face, looking lighter than she had ever seen it, his warm gentle smile making him look so young and handsome; like a dark curtain had been raised allowing the sun to shine through his eyes.

Now he looked terrible. Merrill had answered the violent slamming on the door and squeaked when he almost fell on top of her. The small slight elf only just managed to hold him in a kneeling position. Hawke stood behind her, her hands covering her mouth. He was visibly shaking, panting heavily. His skin had erupted in a furious red around his markings, blistering in ugly sores. His face was a pale green-yellow colour, great black circles around his eyes, which were unfocused and delirious.

"Maker's balls – help me get him upstairs!" Hawke ordered, taking one of his arms and attempting to haul him to his feet. His body was stiff and brittle and perilously thin. If it weren't for the white tattoos standing out against his ragged cloak - so dirty that what might have once been emerald was now just a dark murky brown – then she would have dismissed him for a sick beggar. But all the same, what was this? Plague? She almost dropped him, resisting the urge to wipe her hands. What if he was contagious? "Merrill, just go and get me some ice water. I think I can carry him on my own." It was bizarre. She could indeed lift him into a cradling position with ease. She felt almost disrespectful as she carried him like a child up to her bedroom and she was glad he was probably beyond memory.

She laid him down and he began to shiver again, coughing weakly behind clenched teeth. It was a fever that she had never seen before. He appeared to be in the throes of advanced hyperthermia. The thought made her heart skip a beat in panic. If this is what it was then he was at death's door. No he was crawling with determination over the threshold to embrace the Maker himself. Suddenly, she was plunged into a fog of helplessness, her mind startlingly blank and fuzzy. Wringing her hands, she paced back and forth, hissing out a constant strain of vile curses. Fenris' abrupt stillness halted her progress and she just stood, staring at him dully. Then she heard a voice – _his voice_ – as surely as if he were standing right beside her.

_It's classic textbook stuff really. Luckily this one's not too far gone. See how her hands shake – and a fever of 103. She must have done nothing short of eating it to get this bad._

Lyrium! His tattoos were laced with lyrium. Of course! Tattoos were laid underneath the skin. Fenris had not been digesting it – nothing so tame – it had been slowly leaking into his veins through his skin. He might as well be injecting it for all the difference it would make. Merrill skidded in with a basin of ice water and a sopping rag, which she laid on Fenris' forehead and then looked at Hawke for more instructions.

This must have been what Anders was treating him for. Early symptoms would have been manageable. Influenza-like signs would set in for the first few weeks. After about a month, the shaking and the vomiting would start. She remembered with a horrible sinking feeling the night she had seen him hunched over the bush, quivering and panting like an old man. After a few months the fever, hallucinations and madness would arise and shortly after that… she tried not to think about it, tried to focus all her efforts on remembering Anders' voice even though it was agony to do so.

_Only magical ills need magical cures._

She raked her mind viciously, thinking so hard that it hurt. Fenris' breathing began to falter. Charcoal absorbed poisons in the system… bread and grain counteracted metals in the blood stream. She started to wring her hands again. He needed to be awake to swallow anything. Moving automatically, impulsively, she darted forward and emptied the basin of ice water over his body. The reaction was almost comical. Fenris sat up bolt upright, yelling and spluttering. The cold water would not reduce his temperature but it would at the very least force him into consciousness. Hawke jumped over the fireplace and grabbed a handful of crumbly coal and forced it into his hands. He looked at her, his eyes still wavering uncertainly. She slapped him over the back the head. "Eat!"

He did so with dumb obedience. Hawke was almost crying with relief. She sent Merrill away for more water and sat down beside Fenris, gripping his arms like a vice and muttering under her breath, trying to remember the correct incantations. He hissed at her, trying to wrench his arms away from her, his eyes wide with pain and irritation. She slapped him again like a naughty child and he stilled, regarding her with an angry, haughty expression that appeared almost normal. Her hands began glowing a healing green like the sun shining through forest leaves. Anders had told her there was no need for magical cures – but every little bit helped.

Merrill returned with a jug this time and Hawke took it from her bossily, grabbing Fenris by the back of the head and tilting his face upwards, holding the jug to his lips. "Drink!"

After over an hour of rough and insistent treatment, Fenris pushed them away and told them all in a snarl that they should please let him sleep or he could suggest violent and unorthodox things they could do with their herbs and their coal. Hawke finally felt she was ready to let him do so with faith that he would wake up at the end of it, so she left with a stammering Merrill and a happy grin on her face.

A busy mind is a happy mind.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Recovery_

Despite Hawke's confidence, she was starting to get a little worried by the time twenty-four long hours had passed and Fenris still hadn't shown signs of awakening. She had checked on him periodically, measured his pulse and breathing, and occasionally added or taken away blankets as his fever rose and fell. When she needed to sleep, she had asked Merrill to watch over him in her place. That was the second hardest part of looking after him – leaving him to someone else. The hardest part was the consistent nagging voice that told her he should be taking more medicine, or at least woken up to expel the lyrium one way or another. As it was, he just laid there, his face damp but otherwise in peaceful sleep. At least he wasn't shaking or thrashing around in fevered nightmares. Softly she had stroked his long arms, tracing the markings and soothing the hissing red sores with gentle healing words. He wouldn't mind – she wouldn't tell him when he woke up.

As the twenty-fifth hour came and went and two hours before her second shift ended, Hawke crept into his room. She spent a few seconds just looking at him before she counted his pulse for the millionth time, felt his breathing, marked his temperature, swept the floor, dusted the tabled, remade the bed, and opened the window. With nothing else to occupy her. she felt that helpless uselessness descend on her again and she climbed gently onto the bed to lay beside him, careful to stay at least a foot away lest she disturb him.

"Fenris," she whispered, comfortable in the knowledge that he couldn't hear her. "Varric's been writing his book… it's really quite good you know – even if some of the facts get 'mixed up' along the way." She drew herself into a sitting position and continued. "I'm learning so much about you that I didn't know before. Like how you had a girl living in your house. I wonder how Varric knew about that. Did you tell him? I never thought you were one to give away any secrets… Do you remember that time when we all went to see the circus troupe at the Hanged Man? It was the first time I had ever seen you drunk… "

XXX

I gasped audibly as a great blaze of flame erupted from the man's mouth, feeling the heat of it stroke my face. Anders laughed at my reaction.

"One would think you had never seen magic before!" he grinned. I pushed him and he was so full of good wine that he almost toppled off the chair. He was still one of the people who clapped the loudest when the fire breather bowed off stage to be replaced by two beautiful women who danced to strange and exotic music. I tried to keep up with their hypnotic hips and graceful arching arms but I soon grew dizzy, the inn comfortably hot and my cheeks rosy from the excitement and alcohol. I leaned on Anders, nuzzling into his feathered cape and closing my eyes, just listening to the suggestive, dynamic music.

The lutes ceased and I heard Varric howl and whoop as the girls took their bows.

"Anders…" I murmured. "Go make them a real show… I bet Justice would scare them… the blue lights are pretty…" I felt consciousness slip away, the glowing happy feeling in my stomach making me sleepy. If he wasn't also drunk, I think it would have made him angry, but he must have been far gone because he just ruffled my hair and said in a calming, soft voice that one normally uses when speaking to an over-enthusiastic child. "Okay sweetie… I'll do that and you can just have a nice little nap on my shoulder, right?"

I pretended to sleep while the troupers took a fifteen-minute break and began listening to Anders talk animatedly with Varric - something about cats. I was still snuggled into his cloak and I enjoyed the feeling of his chest vibrating as he spoke. I saw you out of the corner of my eye. It must have been the change of wine because it was the first time you weren't brooding.

"_I don't brood," Fenris insisted, making her jump. He had been awake, looking at her with a fixed and steady eye. He still looked uncomfortable, clutching his stomach and trying to keep the pain out of his voice. "But keep talking… it helps…"_

_Hawke nodded, flooding with relief and feeling more than a little self-conscious now that she knew she had an audience. _

Well… like I was saying, _she stammered,_ you were just gazing off into nothing. Your eyes looked so pretty in the torchlight. But I digress.

Anders was talking about cats and I was listening to his pleasant voice through his cloak when I heard the troupers announce that their next act had been fed too much ale and was not fit for performing. However they brought out their lute players and a sweet young male elf who sang in a lilting, haunting high tenor that made me even more sleepy. I don't know if you know this, but I was watching you watching the musicians. You were smiling. I love it when you smile – it makes you look so much younger… But again I ramble.

_Hawke began to blush and despite her previous relief that he was awake, she was starting to wish now that he was sleeping again. These memories confused her, made her feel uncomfortable. It was all very well to confess one's confusion to a deaf ear but now… She saw how her voice soothed him and decided to continue on, regardless of her feelings. _

And your hands were moving on the table. It was a long time before I realised that you were actually tracing the chords of the song with your fingers. It shouldn't have surprised me really. The amount of times I was in your house and saw it… that lute resting against your fireplace as if ready to become firewood. You never burned it though. But all this is only in hindsight. You shocked everyone when you stood and replaced one of the players. No one noticed at first, we were all too drunk and talking among ourselves. I was the first to see you, the tattoos flashing in the flickering light, head bent over the lute, cradling it like a baby. Your hair had fallen over your face like a curtain, but I think if I saw your face…

I know a man can love an object like he does a woman. I mean look at Varric and Bianca… But can a man fall in love with an object? Is it possible for a man to never need a woman's touch so long has he can caress the heartstrings of a lute?

"_Yes…" Fenris voice was little more than a whisper. "And no…"_

When you played… it suddenly didn't matter how drunk I was. I could hear it, hear you. I know that sounds so strange but…_ she blushed_. It was like the first time I had ever seen you. And this time I could really look at you, like they talk about in stories. When you can see right through someone.

_She looked at him, her eyes trying to see into him just as she described. _

What were you doing? Where have you been?

XXX

They were silent for a long time. He didn't seem like he was about to answer her question. It looked like he was about to fall back asleep before she got off the bed and walked around to stand over him, hands on her hips. He gazed back at her warily.

"I understand you would like to know where I have been these past few months," he stated.

"I understand you're not going to tell me right now."

"You are wise," he chuckled, then grimaced and put a hand over his chest. "It hurts…"

"Of course it does!" she exclaimed, wanting to slap him again. "But it's your own damn fault! If you had stayed with us, I could have helped you like-like Anders – if you had told me you were suffering from lyrium poisoning then I could have mixed up a few potions for you to take with you before you left." She sighed and looked away from him. "I can't stand it when someone doesn't let me help them…

He said nothing, closing his eyes.

"What I don't understand is how you lasted so long without help. I mean, you were with Danarius for years. Did you see a healer then?"

When he didn't look likely to reply, she threw her hands up in the air and turned to leave with a disgusted sigh. It was only when she reached out and touched the door handle that she heard his husky voice behind her.

"He was a magister – as I have told you before. He force-fed me the medicine required to keep the lyrium poisoning from my markings at bay. Maker, do I have to spell it out for you?"

She turned to look at him, biting her lip, unsure of how to reply.

"He would strap me down at first," Fenris face was expressionless but his eyes were cold and flickering, "and insert a tube down my throat and pour the mixture through the tube. It made me want to retch… if he was feeling particularly malicious, or I was feeling especially rebellious, he would pour it down my nostril. It wasn't long before I agreed to take it of my own will – though even then I thought it was a concoction to make my mind weak and smother my disobedience." He closed his eyes and covered his face with a long, shaking hand. "You can't imagine the pain…"

Hawke felt numb, her mind blank, as if she couldn't quite decide what was the appropriate emotion to feel. She could not – would not – pity him. He deserved more than that. As it was, she could only stand stupidly, her hands dangling at her sides.

"It was months after I escaped before I started feeling the effects… the shaking, the fever and sickness. I was in your company by then and Anders was a healer. You know the rest." His hand fell from his face and he tried to prop himself up on his elbows, meeting her eyes once more. They were no longer cold but she could still feel the frustration etched in the lines of his face. She realised with a flicker of guilt and embarrassment that he had thought she would have figured all this out herself and that he certainly had never wanted to tell her all this aloud. She looked down, unable to hold his gaze for any length of time.

He lay back down and closed his eyes once more, gritting his teeth. "Venhedis, my head aches. Either get out or get me some medicine."

"I'm not your slave," she grinned.

He gave the ceiling above him a withering look. "If that was a joke, it wasn't funny."

Hawke flushed so deeply that she could feel the scarlet creep up her neck like molten lava. With her head down so her hair covered her face, she left the room to fetch him his potion.

XXX

In an attempt to avoid further conflict, she implored Varric to go give Fenris his medicine after she had made it. Varric politely refused saying he would rather play doctor to a shark. Merril didn't want to do it either, muttering something about polishing her staff and seeing to the chickens.

"We don't own any chickens!" Hawke flared.

"I was thinking about buying some… They are so cute when they cluck around the garden. I've always wanted a dog."

"A chicken is certainly not a dog," Hawke growled.

"I know, I know," Merrill giggled, holding up her hands as a sign of peace. "But they are still so warm and fluffy. I think it would be good for Fenris. Stroking fluffy things lowers your blood pressure you know. They don't eat as much as dogs and you don't have to walk them. I think I you could do with something to cuddle too."

Hawke bowed her hand and pinched the bridge of her nose, unable to stay stern at the ridiculous idea of Fenris cuddling a chicken. Waving Merrill away with exasperation, she turned to go into the tiny kitchen, plucking leaves off the little herb plants that squatted on the sunlit windowsill. She tried to shake away the feeling of rejection and hurt. Maker, he was only an elf – and a sick one at that. What harm could he do to her? She would just breeze in and out, leaving him the potion and closing the door behind her. At the last moment, she decided to make him a sandwich, thinking that the wheat in the bread would be just as good for him and that he must be starving after that long sleep.

She prepared herself to do just as she had promised herself she would. She didn't even knock, but pushed through the door with her elbow, striding towards the bed and roughly placing the tray on the bedside table. He didn't acknowledge her, didn't even open his eyes. To smoke and hellfire with her original plan, she couldn't let the smug thing lie there without an apology.

"You know, if I didn't give you this, you'd die. But not before you started throwing up blood and don't get me started on the muscle spasms, loss of hair, and your balls shrivelling up until they are the size of small peas." She had made the last part up, but he wouldn't know that.

"I know…" he sighed. Other than that, he didn't move.

"I hope you were nicer to Anders when he was saving your balls!"

"I was… if it makes you feel any better."

"Screw you!" she hissed. "You know I was having quite a nice time out here in the country before you showed up! Everything was good and peaceful and then you had to land on my doorstep, disrupting everything and half dead. And of course, you wouldn't give a damn that I was sleeping on the floor of Merrill's room so you could have my bed!"

"I'm sorry about Anders."

She was drawing in breath to blurt out another stream of insults, but his comment disarmed her so suddenly, she choked and had to turn away to catch her breath.

"It was good of Merrill to stay with you… I should have done the same. I hadn't realised… I of all people know how it feels to be alone – to pace from room to room in an empty house and try to find something to occupy myself with. I used to set off Danarius' traps just so I had something to fight, to do. That's one part of the loneliness they don't talk about in stories… the boredom, the hopelessness, the feeling of pointlessness. It's so easy to fall… so hard to stand again."

Hawke was silent, stunned. She felt herself nodding.

"You're not angry at me for being ungrateful, though you should be. You're angry because I had the audacity to come back."

She nodded again, feeling her eyes tickle with uncomfortable tears. Excusing herself, she bowed clumsily and swept out of the room.

XXX

Varric looked up from the crackling pages to see Hawke sitting opposite him. He sighed and wiped the nib of his quill on a blackened cloth before setting it down and regarding her with a steady, knowing gaze. Hawke shifted uneasily.

"What do you want?" he asked, already knowing the answer. He had overheard her exchange with Fenris. Not his fault of course, he just happened to pass by the door when he had heard her raised voice and it wasn't as if he could have just left something like that to play out without a witness. It was his job after all to record all things that happened around Hawke. What sort of a biographer would he be if he didn't do these things?

Hawke paused for a long time, her eyes flickering with a sharp and confusing emotion. "I would like…" she swallowed. "I would like to read chapter fifty-three."

At first, Varric didn't react. He just looked at her, his eyes scanning her face, the slump of her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes, the twisting and thinning of her mouth. It had been months since the event, but was she ready? He considered her, considered her request, reviewing the possible consequences.

"I know why you want it," he told her slowly. "But it might not have the effect you want it to. It might not help." He allowed himself a warm fleeting fatherly smile. "It could just make it worse, you know."

"But I'm fine now. It's ok. I know I can handle it."

"You _think_ you can handle it," he corrected gently. "And you're not fine, not really. Yes, you're numb, it doesn't hurt any more. But it's like soaking a wound in ice water. All you can feel is the cold, and that eases the pain. Are you sure the cut's healed enough for you to take your hand out of the water?"

She only favoured him with a glare. "This conversation is pointless. If you don't give it to me, I'll steal it later."

He sighed again, looking older than he was. "I know… You know, sometimes I wish…"

She frowned quizzically. "What?"

"No… that's not right. I don't want to be young. Rather, I wish you were old. You wouldn't be so reckless with your emotions if you knew the consequences of feeling them."

When Hawke continued looked at him with her head slightly tilted and her brow furrowed, he continued. "People never change or move forward. We just keep tripping up on the same stones. Times change, Hawke, people don't change. You only realise that when you grow older"

Hawke's frown turned into a grimace and she said in a ruffled voice, "Just give me the chapter, Varric."

He did, and without another word she left. He returned to his writing, slower and more deliberately than before.


End file.
